[center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center][center][img]https://i.ibb.co/K7DnsfQ/icewine-night-vineyard.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/vXD6Q0t/Update-Text.png[/img][/center][center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center]
[center][hider=Coach House][img]https://i.ibb.co/5jfBrYW/Coach-House-Opener.jpg[/img][/hider][/center][center]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━[/center]


	[u]Weather[/u]: The snow comes down in varying degrees of sideways, spurred on by fluctuating winds in the dark. This is a good night to be inside.  

   	[u]Time[/u]: We have passed the threshold of early night, into the middle of it. 

	[u]Ambience[/u]: Contrary to the unseasonable snowstorm occurring outside, the interior of the Coach House is well on its way to becoming quite comfortable. The heat from the hearthfire has passed though the taproom with slower but unerring progress, diffusing only in times that the front door needed to open to admit the building's residents. It's lovely, if a bit dark inside. Several unlit candles and oil lamps rest here in the gloom while hearth light dances upon the furniture and walls like a cheery campfire barely beating back the night. 

	Upon the bar, the barrel of antique brandy rests next to whatever remains of the barrel of Kathyrn's ale, both on the side of the raised, alcohol bearing platform nearest to the cellar. Behind the bar is an excellent selection of (mostly) wines of a decidedly commercial nature, though other potables might be located with an observant eye. Back in the kitchen, another fire glows. Not with the intensity of the hearth fire, but well enough to cook and illuminate the smaller room. While the pantry is not packed full, there is a more than adequate amount of foodstuffs for several days. Longer, if one rations. And if the weather keeps up like this for too long, that may be a consideration. Time will tell.       

[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 
[img][/img]	
	Lizbeth took in the words of the adventuring party, smiling politely where appropriate to the supportive bits and paying silent attention to the more elaborate speech given by the Bard, specifically. The philosophy described made some sense to her but did not appear to give immediate comfort. There was an inquisitive pique of interest at the explanation of the Unseen Servant from Kosara, but this, too, faded back into an expression of near melancholic uncertainty. So she took it upon herself to politely excuse herself to the kitchen to prepare something more substantial than they had at the wine tasting for everyone. [color=darkgray]"I will, thank you,"[/color] Lizbeth said to Baronfjord upon her insistence that she also make something for herself to eat. As if to echo the words Kathryn insisted upon, she nodded and spoke with a calm voice, [color=darkgray]"Easy and simple."[/color]

	The young lady quietly retired to the kitchen, for the moment leaving her belongings on the table where they lay. With the fire still hot in the smaller room, it took little time for the sound of something searing to reach the ears of those in the taproom. A large, iron pan, almost too big for Lizbeth to move without effort on her part, was quickly brought to temperature and a more than moderate amount of diced, cured pork belly made its way within. While the party had their discussion of what they might plan or the direction their investigations may take, the scent of browning, smoky bacon issued from the kitchen. It wasn't very long past this that Lizbeth opened the door and propped it with a stool. Tears dampened her face at this time, but the reason was revealed not to be an emotional upheaval - a judicious application of the humble onion, or some few of them, added to the pan for searing gave this affront. Airing the kitchen helped some, and opening a window was not a viable option. 

	While one had a direct line of sight to Mademoiselle L'Rose, and she to the taproom, discreet discussion was likely as sounds of fire, the hissing of mid-point caramelization, and the organized clatter of cooking utensils at work continued. Lizbeth's attention appeared fully into her work, which distracted her from the little bits of everything that had happened recently. Thick, orange flesh of a seasonal squash diced to manageable pieces went into the pan next, followed by a bevy of aromatic herbs, salt, and a light grating of a rolled, dried bark came next. A liberal amount of white wine deglazed the pan with a sharp, crackling report which faded into soft bubbling as the upcoming dish began to take life. A quick splash of cream and the pan was lidded, leaving Lizbeth time to slice and toast off some (only slightly stale) sorghum bread.

	The conversation developed, as conversations do, out in the taproom, punctuated by Lizbeth's efforts in the kitchen. [color=darkgray]"A few more minutes,"[/color] she announced, her first contribution to the more serious back-and-forth among the adventurers.  

	As surely as time continues to roll along, time rolled along. True to her word, Lizbeth was only a few more minutes, eventually exiting the kitchen with a couple of steaming bowls in hand. [color=darkgray]"Stewed butternut squash and bacon. Careful, it's hot. And some sorghum toast."[/color] A little spot of brightness crossed her face, followed by a familiar, weary expression. [color=darkgray]"Could someone please help? It's a lot to carry."[/color] 

	Off in the distance, halfway across the grounds of the Rose River Vineyard, there sat a low structure made mostly of stone. Within, over the noise of windblown snow, one might hear the sound of tools hammering upon materials and abrupt cursing in a distinct dialect of Dwarfish. A clatter reverberated across the interior as said tools were raked off of the workstation and a gnarled hand plunged into a bucket of extraordinarily cold water. The light was very low, fueled only with the glowing coals of a forge, but the lone occupant known among the surface dwellers as Urmdrus didn't seem to mind. What he did mind, however, was the sudden swelling in his thumb. This was due primarily to a misplaced strike from a relatively small hammer, unaccustomed as the craftsdwarf was to delicate, detail work. Another blast of foreign profanity issued, though not from his injury. A devotee to Underdark linguistics might have been able to translate, [color=darkgray][b]"Fuckfucking silken knife-ear rotheshit,"[/b][/color] or something similar. This was directed at the latest item made of Ankheg chitin he was finishing up. Three different colors of scrap material were tooled and turned into smallish leaf shapes and set upon a tiara base, making a surprisingly artistic circlet that yes, did look a little like Elven craftsmanship. If one was squinting. And slightly drunk. But it was a fine example of light protective wear, and was of fine Dwarven craftsmanship. Much like the two green, chitinous scabbards suitable for a pair of short blades on the table nearby. 

	Outside, the snow continued to fall. Unseasonably, maybe even unnaturally. But down it came, except for the occasions when it came sideways. The night deepens further over this cold, entombing land, whose hospitality is luckily much warmer than its weather.